136 DECEMBER IN SROADLAND. 



away a tear with the other brawny biceps. Now a sweet song is trilled by child- 

 ren's voices as they stand around the resting place of their lost companion 



' Brief life is here our portion, 



Brief sorrow, short-lived care ; 

 The life that knows no ending, 

 The tearless life, is there.' 



By the time the song is ended, there is not a dry eye in the company around. 

 Even rough * Nixey ' Lutkins the poacher, and his sworn enemy, the gamekeeper, 

 drawn by one bond of sympathy, are now side by side looking over the low wall, 

 and are in tears. For the time being old feuds are forgotten in the general 

 sorrow. Poor little Nellie Groldstone was the only being who ever had a kind word 

 for Nixey. Maybe she 'being dead, yet speaketh' to him. Who knows but that 

 even now he may be making up his mind to profit by the lesson of her spotless 

 life? The service finished and the last look taken, the congregation slowly dis- 

 perses. And the sun peering out from behind the snow-cloud that has passed 

 over, lights up the landscape, and makes the countryside beautiful a fitting 

 emblem of the brightness of a better world, after a journey through the valley 

 of the shadow of death. 



Winter now reigns supreme. Christmas, the jolliest season of all the year, 

 is close upon us. The town is unusually busy, for everyone is making great 

 preparations to welcome it. Even the hard-worked counterman puts up with its 

 inconveniences, with rest and pleasure in prospect. There is an unusual bustle at 

 the Broadland station as we step out of our carriage, and worm our way through 

 a maze of hampers and baskets of good cheer. The feet of fowls and the tails 

 of game peep out in all directions. Is it not strange that much of our pleasure 

 should depend on the death of the humbler creatures ? 



Merrily ring the bells in the village steeple. Ding-dong-ding! It is a sorry 

 peal, but the best the triplet of bells can do. Strong arms pull the ropes, and 

 the sound of their clanging is heard afar. The drowsy bats among the rafters 

 no doubt draw their heads from under their membranous wings, and wonder at 

 their strange awakening; and the owls above them hiss, and crouch at the farthest 

 corner of their location. Ding-dong-ding ! let everyone be glad, for ' Unto us a 

 Child is born, unto us a Son is given,' so runs the roughly-painted scrollwork some 

 village artist has proudly tacked around the old oaken pulpit. There are lights 



